Destined (War of the Covens 2)

“You know, I could do this by myself,” Phoebe suddenly declared, her eyes narrowed on Caia’s pinched face. “Caia has only just woken up from being unconscious for twenty-four hours.”

It was nice of her to offer, but Caia would not allow anyone do this alone. “No. I’m fine, really.”

Caia felt bad for asking Phoebe to do this so soon after their ordeal in Remnant Forest, but she should’ve anticipated that Phoebe would actually be looking forward to the action.

“You’re sure?” Marita hesitated. “Because I can send extra people in with you.”

“No. A group going into an abandoned club would look conspicuous. Phoebe and I can handle this.”

“Are we ready to go, then?” Phoebe strode toward the exit. “Marion has a portal waiting.”

“Wait.”

The Rogue Hunter turned with a look of irritation. “What?”

“You go on ahead to reception. I have to do something first.”

Marita gave her Rose’s room number with what Caia was sure was a look of glee.

Leaving to do this without informing Lucien would piss him off, and not least of all because technically, as her Pack Leader, she had to make him aware of any task of importance she was going to undertake. Slowly, she walked down the white corridor to Rose’s room, feeling her nerves build. She wondered just how pissed off Lucien was going to be that he was out of the loop on this one.

“Do you have to leave?”

Rose.

Caia stopped and peered around the corner to see Lucien standing in the threshold of Rose’s bedroom.

He chuckled. “I’ll be back in five. I just need to order some food. You guys don’t get it delivered to these parts.”

“Show-off, with your fancy room and fancy room service.”

She sounded as exhausted as Caia felt. Caia shook her head; Rose should never have been in that fight.

“Yeah, well, tomorrow I go back to the pack so the special treatment ends.”

“Lucien … I …”

“What is it?” He moved back inside, leaving the door open. Caia crept forward. She could see through the crack between the wall and where the door was hinged. Lucien bent over Rose as she sat propped up in bed, her hand in his, concern for her clearly shining in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“I was … thinking … maybe … maybe I could come back with you.”

He bent and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth, an action that sent Caia stumbling back down the corridor. She fled toward the elevator, an image of what she’d just seen and heard filtering down to land like ash on her tongue.

Hitting the button, Caia refused to let go of more tears. She stiffened and stared into the mirror in the elevator, drinking in the sight of her fragile paleness. The time for heartache had to end. How many times did she have to admonish herself before that sank in? She had a witch and a war to obliterate.

Alone.

“Caia!” Phoebe called to her impatiently, and she hurried over to the lykan as she waited by a portal. By now she was growing accustomed to the nauseating travel via portal, and they stepped out into the Parisian night with a little more ease. Caia exhaled as she straightened from behind the wall they had come out at and stared up and over it to the steps that led to Notre-Dame.

“Oh my goddess,” she said, the smells and sights of the city tingling her senses.

“Caia?”

Ignoring the hunter, she walked toward the Gothic cathedral that rose up out of the Left Bank as surreal as the Center she’d just departed from. Her lykan eyes danced over the misshapen gargoyles perched upon the cathedral sides, their presence only adding more drama to the enigmatic atmosphere of the place itself.

“I can’t believe this,” Phoebe muttered and then she took hold of Caia’s wrist in a painful grip. “We’re not here to sightsee, Caia.”

“But I’ve never been to Paris before. Aren’t you amazed?”

Phoebe snorted and dragged her toward the Latin Quarter. “I’ve killed two lykans here in the past three years. I’ve seen all of Paris I’ll ever want to see.”

With that dose of harsh reality, Caia forgot about not having the opportunity to see Paris as a tourist and led the way to the jazz club. They were silent as they strode through the narrow streets, past excited tourists, and ignored obviously suggestive looks and gestures from men, young and old. Caia realized, as they approached the club, that she and Phoebe were comfortable in each other’s company precisely because neither of them had a penchant for talking.

“Is this it?” Phoebe nodded toward the ground floor of a block of what had to be apartments—little windows and potted flowers sat on ledges edged with quaint wrought iron railings. The opening came out onto the street like black wings, the words Jazz Club written vertically in French and English. The double doors built in off the street were boarded over with a large padlock thrown on for good measure.